Playing Without the Ball (19 page)

So I do a manly thing and set up a barrier for myself, another stick for me to jump over. “Would you want to go out sometime?” I ask. “Like for real?”

She looks me up and down. “I might,” she says. “We were headed in that direction once.”

“I know. I didn’t intend to get sidetracked.”

“I didn’t either.”

We stare at each other for a few long seconds. I’m thinking Shorty would let me borrow his truck some weeknight. “So?” I ask.

“That would be nice,” she says. “I’ll give you my number.”

She leaves soon after, and I don’t make any attempt to touch her. I think she got what she came for, and I know I did, too.

I’m still confused as shit, but I’m happy as hell. I wouldn’t trade that combination for anything.

S
unday whips by because all the pressure is off me. I’m absolutely flying all morning, like I could probably get my hand above the rim, and I can’t wait to get on the basketball court.

I stayed up late last night, staring at the phone number written by Julie’s own hand, dancing by myself to a Steve Earle tape, and breathing in the sweet, cold air coming through my wide-open window. I finally crashed at 4 and woke up this morning around 9.

The Y opens at 10 on Sunday, and there are half-court games going on all day. I get a late breakfast at the diner and walk over there, ready to play for two or three hours, even though we’ve got a game tonight. I can run all day, so I’ve got no concern about tiring myself out. Plus a half-court game is more about passing and cutting. All it’ll do is help me settle down, get into a groove that should carry over to tonight.

The phone call will happen tomorrow evening. Shorty’s already agreed to the use of his truck, so I’m figuring a movie the following Monday, since I’ll be working and playing hoops most
of the week. I’d ask her to one of my games, but she’d be too much of a distraction.

Playing this afternoon is the right thing to do, because I’m overpumped and my first couple of games suck as a result. But I do get settled after a while and start playing well. The mix of players ranges from freshmen up to about age forty, and the skill range is at least that wide. I don’t do anything stupid like challenge the big guys underneath. I’m more concerned about an injury than getting tired, so I play a true point guard position, controlling the offense, but mostly looking for assists.

Life goes in cycles; I know that. I’m starting an up cycle now, and I’ve earned it. And I know the things that are happening now will help me through the next downturn, which will be unavoidable and strengthening.

I see in the paper that the Weston CC team is 2-17, so there might be room for me next year. Kaipo is definitely going, so I figure I’ll apply. I’m sure not going anywhere else.

I eat my second meal of the day about 4, just a couple of cans of tuna fish in my room, an orange, a cucumber, some leftover rice from the Chinese take-out place, and half a box of cookies. We don’t play until 7, the third game, so I set my alarm for 6 and lie down for a nap.

We don’t say much, warming up. Everybody knows what’s at stake, everybody knows these guys embarrassed us last time.

Alan points to the Baptists as we huddle up before the game. “That is the most patient, team-oriented team in the league,” he says, “and if we let down tonight, they’ll send us packing again. We’re at least thirty points better than they are. Let’s show it.”

“You guys starting?” Beth asks.

“Yeah,” Alan says. “We’re starting.”

I don’t shoot at all the first few times we have possession, working it around, finding Alan and Robin inside for a pair of layups apiece. Next time up, I fake a pass to the corner and drive, hitting a soft jumper in the lane to make it 10-4. They call time-out.

“Let’s press,” I say in the huddle. “Just a couple of times, just me and Peter. Let’s put them away early.”

Alan nods. “Okay,” he says. “Next basket. Press, but don’t foul.”

They don’t expect it. Peter tips the inbounds pass and I grab it, laying it up off the backboard. We go right back into the press, and they try a pass to midcourt to break it. Beth steps in and intercepts it. We pull it back out, work it around, and Robin hits Alan inside for an easy layup. We’re up by twelve and everything’s clicking. By halftime, we’ve built it to twenty.

“Now we’ll sit,” Alan says. “Peter play the pivot, Beth bring up the ball. Play tough, deliberate defense and work for good shots on offense. Jay and I will give you some rests, but I want you guys to do the work. Let’s go.”

It’s not the prettiest half of basketball, but we maintain the lead and you can see some confidence developing. I go in and play center for about three minutes, which is fun. I can get up higher than any of their players, so I snag a bunch of rebounds.

We’re ready for Thursday. We win and we’re in. If Kaipo’s team beats us, we’ll be tied with one game to play, and it’d almost definitely come down to a play-off. I don’t want to let that happen.

I
decide not to call Julie from the bar. I want to disassociate this relationship from that place. So I take a break and go over to the diner.

A guy who I assume is her father answers.

“Is, uh, is Julie there?” I say.

“Hold the wire.” I hear him set the phone down, then there’s silence for about a minute until she picks up.

“It’s Jay,” I say.

“Hey,” she says, and I don’t hear any challenge in her voice. She sounds glad to hear from me. “What’s going on?”

“Not much,” I say. “I wanted to, you know, set something up. You said you’d want to go out sometime.”

“Sure. When?”

“Well, because of work and all, I’m pretty busy this week. But maybe a week from tonight. Is that all right?”

“Let me think. Yeah, that’s great. I mean, I’ll have to have another uncle die or something, but I’ll work it out.”

“Okay. Would a movie be okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay.” I let go of my breath. “Good.”

“Great. You want to get together before that?” she asks.

“Yeah. I want to.”

“You don’t work Saturday afternoon, do you?”

“No. Not until about five.”

“I’ll come pick you up,” she says. “Like at noon. We can hang out. Whatever.”

“Great,” I say. “That’s great.”

“Yeah,” she says. “I think it will be.”

Thursday. Beth arrives at the gym with Kaipo, and she’s hanging on his arm. Alan and I go over, and Alan waves her toward him and says, “Later.” He shakes hands with Brian, who gives him a playful shove on the shoulder.

Brian and I smack hands. “Good luck,” he says.

“You too.”

Alan sort of drags Beth down to our end of the gym.

We’re quiet while we warm up, but very focused. My energy level is high, and I’m working to control it. I take a lot of jump shots, and follow up the misses with high, leaping put-backs.

Robin and Beth tie their hair back. Alan goes down to the locker room to throw up.

The bleachers are getting full. Somebody brought in a boom box and it’s playing some rap shit.

I just want this game to get started.

Alan waves us over to the bench, and we huddle around him as he stares at the floor. “This game means a lot to me,” he says. “It means a lot to all of you, and to the guys on the other team. It may mean something to the other players in the
league …. It means absolutely nothing to anyone else in the world.” He looks up, catches my eyes, then Peter’s, then Beth’s. “Do you give a shit? Do you want this thing as much as I do? … Let’s kick some ass.”

We all put our fists together and shout “Let’s go!” louder than we ever have, with an edge.

We’re maybe too intense in the opening minutes, too physical, hustling just a little more than we need to. We make a few sloppy plays, but we keep it even. The problem is the fouls. I draw one and Alan gets two before the first quarter is half over.

“You guys,” Beth says during a time-out, shaking her head. “We lose one of you and forget it.”

“We’ll settle down,” Alan says.

I wipe my face with the front of my shirt. My legs are tired. I never expected that.

I get in a shooting zone in the second quarter, hitting a couple of short jumpers and a long one. Kaipo’s had only one steal from me, and I’ve kept him from shooting as much as he normally would. But he’s getting it inside to Robinson, who’s only hit a couple of baskets, but did draw those fouls on Alan.

Kaipo crosses midcourt with the ball and I guard him close. I don’t go for the steal because he almost always drives past me when I do. But I have to keep the pressure on, keep him from getting an open shot, even from twenty feet out.

He gets it in to Robinson, but Alan’s got him covered good and Peter slides over to help. Kaipo drifts toward the baseline and I race to stay with him. Robinson gets him the ball and he goes up with it, shooting it over my outstretched hand and
sinking it cleanly. They’re up by two.

Alan inbounds the ball to me, and I take a quick breath as I start to dribble. “Watch it,” Alan yells, but it’s too late. Kaipo flicks it out of my hands and drives to the hoop. Alan darts over and tries to draw a charge, but Kaipo slips cleanly past him and banks it in for two more.

They hadn’t been pressing, but I should have been ready. Alan slaps the ball between his hands and passes in to me, and I shield it with my body this time. When I turn, I see Kaipo at midcourt, with a hint of a smile on his face.

“How much time?” I yell, as I dribble past the scorer’s table.

“Less than a minute.”

I decide that we should hold it for the last shot of the half. We can’t see the clock, but the scorer gives you a “Twenty … fifteen … ten” warning at the end of every quarter.

I wave Alan out from underneath and pass him the ball. We work it around the perimeter, killing time, but everybody knows I need to end up with it. Alan has the ball at “Fifteen,” and I run over and get it. I dribble to the top of the key with Kaipo on me tight, keeping my shoulder in his face, protecting the ball.

I feint right, then drive into the lane with Kaipo all over me. I pop up, drifting away. All I see is blue shirt, but I get the shot off as he makes contact with my arm.

The shot goes in. The foul’s called, too, and I make the free throw to cut the lead to a point at halftime.

We head for the bench, but Alan says, “Downstairs,” so we follow him down the narrow back stairway. He pokes his head in the men’s locker room, but then comes out. He looks at Robin. “Check the women’s room,” he says.

She does. “It’s empty,” she says, so we go in there and sit
down. I get a quick look at Spit’s mural, which is vivid and impressive.

“Great half,” Alan says. “We’re going to a modified zone on defense. Jay, you stay on Kaipo. Peter, you take Robinson. Stay in his face. If he gets past you, I’m there, but don’t give him an open jumper. I’ll kill them off the boards if you can keep him away from the basket. Robin and Beth, you play the wings. Don’t get caught in a screen.”

“Don’t worry if they get a guy loose in the corner,” I say. “They’ve only got two guys who can hit that consistently—Brian and Robinson. And if Robinson plays outside, they’ve got nothing underneath.”

Alan sticks his fist out and we all put ours out, too. “All right,” he says, “let’s go. We own this league. Let’s do it.”

The strategy works. Robinson tries to take advantage of the mismatch with Peter, but his shooting is off and Alan keeps getting rebounds. You can see Robinson’s anger growing; he’s throwing lots of elbows. We build the lead to four, then seven. Alan and I are doing all of the scoring, but the other three know their roles, when to come to the ball, just how to feed it to Alan.

Late in the quarter, I nail a jumper from deep in the corner to extend the lead to eight. I pump my fist as we run downcourt. Kaipo takes the ball and dribbles up slowly. The relaxed, sort of amused look he usually has on his face in these games is gone, replaced with a hardened intensity. He crosses midcourt, takes two quick dribbles, and unleashes a twenty-five footer that swishes cleanly.

I bring it up, work it inside to Alan again, and he pivots and scores. The lead is seven.

Kaipo dribbles up, reaches the same spot as before, and promptly hits another one, never even bothering to look inside. The lead is four. We get another layup. He hits another bomb. The lead is three.

I make a bad pass, and one of their guys knocks it clear. Brian gets control and I pick him up in the backcourt. No more open shots.

Ten seconds left in the quarter. I guard him tight. He starts to drive and I backpedal and stumble. He sets up and shoots.

The lead is gone.

“Damn,” Alan says as we get to the bench. “You want to switch?” he asks me, meaning should he guard Kaipo instead?

I shake my head. “No. We’re still outplaying them. The offense is working. I’ll shut him down.”

Alan looks at Josh and Randy, who haven’t played a second. He takes a deep breath. “Beth. Take a short rest. Randy, you come in. You’ve got one assignment, and one assignment only. Harass the shit out of Brian in the backcourt. You won’t get a steal, but you might get on his nerves a little.

“Beth, you and Josh report in after two minutes for Robin and Randy. Josh, you do exactly what I told Randy to do. You guys don’t have to foul him, just slow him down a little. Jay, you pick up at half-court.”

The Randy Press is about equivalent to having a mosquito harass an elephant, but it does get Kaipo out of his rhythm, if only slightly. He scores the first basket of the quarter, but this time it’s only worth two points and we make him work a little harder to get it.

I dribble up very deliberately. I’ve had some good stretches of basketball this season, some good ones tonight. But these final eight minutes better be like nothing I’ve ever done before.

Kaipo picks me up at midcourt. I watch the movement inside, with Peter and Alan struggling to get free. Kaipo’s all over me, and I do a dumb thing and stop my dribble. They immediately double-team me, but I hear Robin yelling and somehow bounce the ball to her. She’s got an open lane and she drives, but Robinson comes out and cuts her off. She makes a nice pass to Alan, who’s open underneath, and he banks it home to tie the game at 47.